Lady of the Golden Hall
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: Why was it that after her victory in the North, after her defeat of the Night King, that the Iron Throne felt more distant than ever? Why did the Northerners not treat her as their queen? Why did she feel so alone? And why had the lady who called Rohan her home come to Winterfell?


**Lady of the Golden Hall**

A chill was in the air of Winterfell's courtyard as Daenerys Targaryen walked into it. Snow covered the ground, as surely as blood stained the snow. Snowflakes drifted down from the heavens, entangling themselves in her golden hair. Winter had come, even if the one who brought it had perished. But all of that was nothing compared to the chill within her heart.

It wasn't meant to happen like this, she reflected. When Aegon, Rhaenys, and Visenya had crossed the Narrow Sea, when they had made the great houses of this land swear fealty to House Targaryen, there had been no doubt then. She had come with three dragons, and even with two now, she possessed more power than any lord or lady in this land, nay, the world. She had saved the North. Saved this country. Saved the world, if the words of Brandon Stark were to be believed. So for that, she knew she should feel joy. She should have been heralded as a hero, to be held aloft by the people of the North as she had been by the slaves of Yunkai. There should be no doubt among anyone now that the true queen had returned.

Instead, the men drank beer, and commended Jon Snow for riding a dragon. As if _he _was the hero in all of this. As if _he _was the one who had saved them. As if _he _was the one who deserved to sit upon the Iron Throne. Which…the chill increased, and she quickened her pace. Assuming what Jon told her about his heritage was true (having looked into his eyes that night, she knew that he at least believed it was true), then that meant that his claim to the Iron Throne was greater than hers. She knew that Jon was a good man – good with a sword, good in character, good in bed. But he was simple. She could admire simplicity. Unfortunately, half the people in this dung heap were simple, and the other half were too smart for their own good. People who considered themselves so intelligent that they thought they knew better than history, that keeping the North separate from the rest of Westeros would somehow be better for it and-

"You look troubled your grace."

Daenerys stopped walking and looked around. She quickly found the source of the voice.

"Is that why you were pacing back and forth?" the woman asked.

Daenerys bit her lip and looked back. Sure enough, there were footprints in the snow in the rough shape of an oval. Having exited the Great Hall and entered the chill of winter's air, she'd somehow lost all direction.

"I'm fine," the Dragon Queen said to the woman. "Just…much on my mind."

The woman laughed. "Don't we all?"

Daenerys smiled – the woman had called her "your grace." That was an honorific that so far few had bequeathed her – at least a few outside the forces that she had brought with her. And even then, the Dothraki were gone, and the Unsullied weren't a talkative sort…but this woman. She came towards her, watching as she piled hay onto a wagon.

"Can I help?" Daenerys asked.

The woman shrugged, and Daenerys began piling on hay. As she did so, she saw what was in the cart. Bottles containing various herbs and powders.

"You can ask you know," the woman said.

"Ask?"

"Am I a witch?" She smiled. "Most people do."

"I…No. Of course not," Daenerys said. "I just imagined you might be a healer."

"I am," the woman said.

"So if I know your profession, may I know your name?"

"Éowyn."

"Éowyn," Daenerys said, as she piled on the hay. "Not a name I have heard before, on this continent or another."

"Éowyn of the House of Eorl of Rohan, otherwise known as the Lady of Ithilien." She kept piling on the hay and glanced at Daenerys. "You seem surprised your grace."

"I…forgive me, Lady Éowyn, but while I have travelled across snow, desert and sea, I have heard of none of these places."

"I would not expect you to. They are…worlds apart from Winterfell."

"I see." Daenerys put on the last of the hay and took a good look at the healer.

She was beautiful. She had no qualms in admitting that – she knew herself to be beautiful. Being beautiful had its advantages, because if one got the sword between a man's legs unsheathed, he'd use a real sword for you at the drop of a hat. But that aside, she could tell Éowyn was older than her – ten, maybe fifteen years. She was wearing clothes well suited for the North, but her long golden hair remained unbound. A small golden necklace was faintly visible where what skin was exposed, and beneath her cloak, she could see a sword. Healer and warrior both then. But which came first?

"Thank you for your help your grace," Éowyn said. "But I best be off."

"Off?" Daenerys asked. "Off where?"

"To a garden where things may grow to help those who need healing."

"To help those of Winterfell?"

"Them, and others." Éowyn began adjusting the reigns around the cart's horse. "From what I have seen, this whole world needs healing."

"From what I have seen, I would agree," Daenerys said.

Éowyn didn't say anything. She just kept tending to the horse.

"Which is why I'm here," the Breaker of Chains added. "To heal this land and restore peace."

Éowyn gave the horse a pat.

"You…do understand that of course? That I-"

"What happens at King's Landing?"

Daenerys blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"What happens at King's Landing?" Éowyn asked. She looked back at Daenerys, and she nearly recoiled – where once there had been kindness and mirth in Éowyn's eyes, there was now ice. Like frost, fighting to keep winter's chill even as summer beckoned. "When you march south, when your fleet sails, when your dragons fill the skies and cause those below them to cry out in terror, what happens to the city and those in it?"

Daenerys could see where this was going, but nevertheless agreed to play the game. "I depose of the False Queen. I liberate the people and reunite the Seven Kingdoms."

"So…this is your story then," Éowyn asked. "The return of the queen."

"I'm sorry?"

She chuckled. "An old joke your grace, one suited for times and places happier than these." She gave her horse a final pat and got on top of the wagon.

"The times will be happy," said Daenerys.

"I'm sure they will."

The Dragon Queen frowned. "You don't seem convinced."

Éowyn sighed and looked down at Daenerys. Not just down as in, standing from greater height, looking down at her as a lesser. As a child. As someone who was ignorant.

_What could you possibly know? _Daenerys thought.

She was beginning to despise this woman.

"The Great Hall," Éowyn said. She nodded to the entrance across the courtyard. "You do not take part in the merriment?"

Daenerys said nothing.

"Perhaps you find the company distasteful. Perhaps you seek glory."

"I seek the Iron Throne."

"But for whose end?" Éowyn asked.

"For my…" She took a breath. "I seek the Iron Throne for the sake of the realm, nothing more."

Éowyn nodded, yet Daenerys could tell that she did not believe her.

"It's the truth."

She had to believe her. The North had to believe her. The world had to.

"Once, I called a hall home," Éowyn murmured. "Among people scarce different from these."

_What?_

"And always, I sought to go beyond it. To find glory and renown, before they passed beyond recall or desire."

Daenerys smirked. "I have not heard of you Lady Éowyn of the House of Eorl, so I suppose that you didn't?"

"Oh, I did," Éowyn said. "I still have the scars to prove it."

"Show me."

Éowyn blinked.

"Show me," Daenerys repeated.

"It's cold," Éowyn murmured.

"And?"

"And I'd prefer not to be even colder."

"You speak of places and people that I know not of," Daenerys snapped. If you call me your grace, then you recognise me as queen. And as queen, I would demand proof of your so-called scars."

Éowyn sighed. She jumped down into the snow and took off her cloak before beginning to unbutton her tunic.

"Do go on though," Daenerys said. "I would hear your story."

"My story is not one I enjoy telling," Éowyn said, as she continued to unbutton her tunic. "My story is the one I live, within the garden I call home."

"This, after finding glory?"

"Finding glory was not as joyous as finding what came afterwards," Éowyn said. She continued to unbutton her tunic, but met Daenerys's eyes – hers, the colour of cloudless sky, meeting Daenerys's deep violet. "I'm not sure if I can say the same for you, your grace. I don't doubt that you are set upon the Iron Throne, and I do not doubt that you believe your cause to be just, but what happens after?"

"The realm is reborn."

"But is it rebuilt?" Éowyn asked. "Does the return of the queen herald a new age, or the return of an old one?" She unbuttoned another button and let her tunic run loose. "To the right," she said. "If you must see them."

Daenerys saw it. Upon the right side of Éowyn's chest, just below her breast, her flesh was scarred. Not that she was an expert on wounds suffered in battle, but she could see that the skin had been impaled in numerous places in a circular manner. Within the circle, the flesh was darkened, like it had suffered a heavy impact.

"A morning star," Éowyn said. "Big one too."

Daenerys looked up at her.

"That's what did it," Éowyn said. "Just in case you were wondering." She began buttoning up her tunic again.

"May I ask who did this violence upon you?"

"By one nearly as terrible as the one the Princess Who Was Promised slew," Éowyn said – having finished buttoning up the tunic, she put her cloak back on. "One who served a lord as terrible as the Night King himself."

Daenerys's eyes narrowed. "Those are some high claims, my lady."

Éowyn shrugged and got back on the wagon. "From what I see here, your grace, high claims are the nature of the world. Men and women claiming a throne through rights however near or distant, based on the understanding that the throne gives them power over the lives of millions." She looked down at Daenerys ago. "Farewell, Daenerys Targaryen."

She flicked the reigns and sent the horse and cart off. After a moment's hesitation, Daenerys followed her.

"You don't like me, do you?" Daenerys asked.

Éowyn looked down at her again. The ice in her eyes was gone, replaced instead by mirth.

"You think yourself better."

"Neither claim is true," Éowyn said.

"Then what-"

"When I look at you, I see myself," Éowyn said. "Or who I once was – a woman caged, before breaking out of the cage and drawing blood with the bars."

"I did-"

"Great and terrible things," Éowyn said. Her cart reached the gate and Éowyn gestured to the guards, who began to open it. "Whatever the outcome of this war, you will go down in the history books either way."

She didn't sound happy about that. "And will you?" Daenerys asked. "You, who have slain monsters as well?"

"No doubt," Éowyn said. "But that matters little to me now. For history is in the past, and I instead look to the future. To my garden. To letting things grow." The gates opened and she gave one last look at Daenerys Targaryen. "It's not the wound that keeps me up at night, Mother of Dragons. It's the darkness. Black breath that came from one whose end was determined by prophecy and…" She winced, putting a hand to her chest. "Prophecy and destiny are painful, and I care not for either of them now. Only…" Daenerys watched as Éowyn moved her hand down from her chest to her stomach. "I can only hope this world finds its better future. As did mine, under a king who was taken power, but never sought it." She looked at Daenerys. "And I'm not talking about Robert Baratheon."

Daenerys just stared. "World." It was clear that the Lady Éowyn was not only a liar, but potentially mad.

_Like you might be?_

She shooed the voice away. She was not the Mad Queen. She was not Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, the one who would have burnt all of King's Landing to the ground before accepting defeat. She would never do that. She was better than that. She was the rightful heir to the Seven Kingdoms, and-

"Farewell, Daenerys."

Éowyn rolled her cart out, and Daenerys just stood there, watching. Watching as the cart and its lady disappeared from sight. Watching as the doors closed. Watching as the guards gave her suspicious looks before returning to their posts. Watching and staring, as snow continued to fall from the heavens.

Snow falling on her. Snow falling on snow.

Snow that even now, still bore the marks of blood.

* * *

_A/N_

_There's a long version and a short version as to how this came to be. Long version would be a bit too, well, long, so short version is that in addition to everyone discussing season 8 of _Game of Thrones_, I recently had a discussion on the same forum about Éowyn and the nature of her character arc. Again, this isn't really the place to discuss it, but basically discussing the two characters in close proximity got me in the position of "crossover time." I mean, they're both blonde, they're both princesses, they're both in great halls watching merriment in Season 8/_Return of the King _and feeling isolated from those around them at one point or another, so...like I said, crossover time._

_And yes, that is the short version. 0_0_


End file.
